


I'll be good

by Puffls



Series: Hold on Forever [3]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Gay, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon, its pretty gay, sssssorta? hell if i know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 02:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11094873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puffls/pseuds/Puffls
Summary: Sloane is terrified.Sloane seeks out Hurley for help.





	I'll be good

**Author's Note:**

> title is from [I'll be Good](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=POqEVwROEQs) by Jaymes Young
> 
> I've been cold, I've been merciless  
> But the blood on my hands scares me to death  
> Maybe I'm waking up today

Sloane never meant for it to get this bad.

It's just, she needed something _more._

She wasn't a villain. She wasn't the bad guy. Yeah, what she did? Technically not so good. The wrong thing, but for the right purpose. The end justifies the means, and her means? Were by far forgivable. She never inflicted damage on anyone who deserved it. What she took was a drop of water from an ocean of wealth to give to those dying of thirst. If anything, she was doing the right thing.

Sloane came from nothing. And she made a name for herself - the Raven was a name whispered in amazement, in awe, in fear. She was to be respected, to be feared. She was dangerous. She was heroic. She was a legend, a hushed whisper among the crowd of battle wagon racers, a look of pure jealousy from other competitors as she breezed by them to grab her winnings after the race, a frustrated growl from militia members, a breath of gratitude from those with nothing.

But no one should be forced to stick their neck on the line in a tentative bloodsport like battle wagon racing just for the sake of financial security.

So she donned her mask outside of races, and she began to fix things the only way she could think how.

 

It's just, she could finally do something now. She could finally bring the change she wanted to this town. She could strike down the rich who only got richer while growing fat off of the excess stolen from the poor's famine. She could singlehandedly wrangle the gangs who used their strength in the racing track to bully those who couldn't fight back. She could strike down those who sought to abuse the power that came with being a member of the militia. With power came the opportunity to change, and after dragging her way out of her bitter beginnings into making a name for herself, there was nothing she craved more than change.

She wanted to fix everything. She knew she could!

She just never meant for it to get this bad.

The belt is wrapped loosely around herself, although Sloane isn't worried about it falling off. The vines feel like they've been rooted into her skin, clinging tightly to her being. It's suffocating, almost, despite it being nowhere near her neck.

The voices had been whispering to her ever since she picked up the damn thing.

But now? Now, the scary thing is, she can't tell anymore. She can't tell which are her own thoughts and which are being manifested by the belt.

It's becoming her. And that terrifies her. She doesn't think she could take it off now even if she tried and she's too scared to try. Because without the belt, what is she? Without the belt, she's nothing. Without the belt, she will be overpowered and struck down and everything she has ever done will be for nothing. She will  be made a villain, she will be executed, she will fall, she will fall and Hurley will be alone. If she takes off the belt, Hurley would be found while wandering the streets after a race without her mask, recognized by some group of racers with a (justified) grudge against the militia. And she knows there will be too many, and she knows Hurley can take care of herself, but she knows that Hurley will fight and Hurley will lose, and she knows that she will try, but she will fail. She knows she'll  be too late.

She knows. She doesn't know how she knows, nor can she justify why she knows. But it's a deep horror that rattles her core, and she can feel it down to her marrow.

 

Sloane tried to take off the belt once.

Not try. She did. She had been wearing it, and she took it off. She had been wearing the belt, and she knew it's power, but she knew her own power as well. It was before a race and the Raven was confident in her own abilities to not need such a boost during it.

She was good at what she did; everyone knew it.

And that was why her wagon was specifically targeted by a hastily made alliance between three teams of racers to tear their wagon to pieces right off the gate, before she and Hurley left the rest of 'em in the dust.

It wasn't uncommon for this to happen.

It just, it never _worked_ before.

Two wagons had flanked the sleek canoe, a third approaching from the back. And she could hardly remember, the world spinning by so fast, the wind whistling in her ears as she struggled to remain in control of the wheel while the two against its sides slowly pressed in, crushing inwards. Marauders donning masks of bulls and wild dogs jumped over the edge and strode her way, weapons swinging menacingly.

Hurley, her Ram, her headstrong, beautiful partner in crime, charged right into the fray with a flying leap at one of the aggressors. And then the world becomes an explosion of red dust and exhaust fumes, of heavy footsteps on well loved metal and wood, of sweat and spit and dirt and flesh as a fist connects with her face and she bites down hard on knuckle despite it all. It’s losing her grip on her whip and watching it skitter away from her reach in the quickly moving cart, hearing her pulse pounding in her ears as the lenses over her eyes crack. It’s being upright, then down again, and the world itself has realigned its directions, leaving Sloane disoriented and dazed.

Hurley's arms were pinned back as she flailed wildly in the grip of a Bull, but the big brute's sheer size and weight held her in place, dangling a foot or two above the ground. One of their buddies gave a laugh as they gave the ram skull atop Hurley's head a condescending pat. They grabbed the safety harness from around Hurley's body and ripped it off without a second thought, letting out a dark tut-tut of "won't be needing that where you're going anyways." They throw the halfling to the ground and give her chest a brutal stomp before turning tail back to their own carts.

And the cart is falling apart, and Sloane's whip has long since toppled over the edge and Hurley lay gasping, clutching her ribs with shuddering breaths. The two that had compressed their own cart pulled away, leaving the shitty mess of wood and metal and magic to fall back to the dusty ground, and Sloane realizes they had been the sole reason the wagon had remained above the ground. But now it all comes tumbling down, and Hurley’s skidding to the edge as it all collapses and there’s nothing she can do but take a running leap at her partner off the cart while she falls, catching her small form with outstretched arms and clutching tight.

The last thing she remembered clearly was hoping the safety mechanism will be able to save the both of them before they hit the road.

The rest was a blur.

A jarring impact and a skid across the road and a hushed prayer that they wouldn’t end up below the wheels of another racer. Their masks would be ruined, but hold firm enough to serve the purpose of hiding their faces from anyone who would recognize them. They come away with bloodied faces and broken bones and some level of shame for having been caught so off guard. And deep in Sloane’s bones lurk a jarring fear.

They take months to rebuild and regroup before they enter another race.

Sloane dons the belt wrapped tightly around her waist, terrified that she would lose Hurley without it’s power.

They win. And they win. And they win and they win and they win and it’s not about winning, it’s about keeping them both _safe_ , but Hurley doesn’t see the same when an overturned wagon crushes the team that tried to ambush them. They walk away unscathed this time, but Hurley is _furious_ , and doesn’t she see that she’s only doing this to keep them safe?

 

Sloane knows she isn’t a wanted sight in Hurley’s apartment, but she doesn’t have anywhere else to turn and she’s _scared_ and Hurley? Her partner, her lover, her Ram - Hurley will know what to do. Hurley won’t turn her away, she knows that much, because that’s not who Hurley is. Hurley is strong and smart and caring and beautiful and Hurley will know what to do. And even if Hurley doesn’t, Sloane is just so _tired._ She wants to see Hurley outside of the endless game of cat and mouse they play day in and day out, and she’s been too ashamed to show her face since the race. She misses her. She misses her so much.

So she scales the brick walls of Hurley’s apartment the way she used to, climbing up the balcony and holding her breath. She always kept this window unlocked. Just in case. But she wasn’t on good terms with the halfling since the race, so would she have locked it? She wouldn’t blame her, but would Hurley do it? Would Hurley have turned her away after all? There’s something in her head telling her that this was all pointless and purposeless, that Hurley doesn’t want to see her, that she fucked up and Hurley never wants to see her ever again, that she’s doing just fine managing it as is, that she doesn’t need help, doesn’t deserve it.

But she wants to see Hurley.

The window is unlocked, just as it always is, so she slips inside. She slices the palm of her hand on the window, but it hardly registers with the whirlwind of thoughts and emotion.

The apartment is dark. Hurley hasn’t come home yet.

There’s a quiet whisper of _I told you so_ in her head, that she shouldn’t be here, and she tells it to shut the fuck up. Hurley will be back soon. It’s not like Hurley up and left for somewhere else to live. She’d be back. So she makes her way to the couch she’d slept on many times before and sits down. The raven mask is placed on the coffee table and it seems to give her a disapproving glare when she sits down.

She couldn’t care less.

Hurley will come back, and when Hurley comes back they’ll be able to figure this out calmly and carefully because Hurley always knows what to do. But for now, the apartment is silent and still and dark and it strikes her that it smells so strongly of _home_ that it hurts. Sloane is hollow and empty and cold and she misses this. Hurley will come back, she tells herself. But for now, she tucks her legs underneath her and curls up on the couch, eyes closing with a deep breath.

 

Sloane wakes to a hand on her shoulder gently shaking her, and it’s _warm_. She just wants to sit here and savor the feeling of contact with the rough, calloused hand’s kind touch. But Hurley sounds worried when she says her name in that soft little voice that’s reserved for quiet moments where the world is locked away and there’s no need for the disguises and bravado and performing. Where they aren’t Lieutenant Hurley of the Goldcliff Militia and the petty crook, nor the fierce battle wagon partners the Raven and the Ram. In this moment they’re just Hurley and Sloane, the women who fell in love and want to change the world.

“Sloane?” Hurley repeats, giving her another quick shake. She can hear the face Hurley makes when she gets worried in her voice, can hear the crinkle of her knit eyebrows and lips pursed, eyes wide with her unintentional puppy dog magic that feels like a suckerpunch to the gut. Sloane opens her eyes, and winner-winner-winner! Hurley’s making the face that makes her feel like garbage because she knows she is the one who put it there. She fixes Hurley with a sheepish look and sits up, keeping Hurley’s hand on her shoulder with a hand of her own. “Sloane, are you alright? Gods, you look terrible.”

Normally, she’d brush off the comment with a joke. But she’s seen her reflection: gaunt face, the circles under her eyes that’ve only grown larger, the dead look in her eye. Her skin had taken on a greenish tinge and paled as the voices grew restless the longer she kept the belt on. She looked sick. Unhealthy. Like an animal that crawled off somewhere to die. It didn’t feel right to make light of the situation when this was exactly what she came here to talk to Hurley about, so she avoids her gaze and leans into the touch. She’s silent for a few moments, gathering her wits about her while she struggles to find the words to say.

Hurley takes her hand from Sloane’s shoulder and places it on her cheek, cupping her face with both hands now in her effort to get Sloane to look at her. “Sloane?” Hurley asks again, “what’s going on? You can tell me this. I promise. But I can’t help you if I don’t know.”

Her voice is so soft and caring and sweet and Sloane is shuddering with guilt because fuck, she doesn’t deserve this, but Hurley wants her to speak. She’s fixing her with those soft brown eyes and she can’t take this, she can’t handle this. But Hurley wants to help. And she wants help, even though she shouldn’t be allowed to receive it. So she takes in a deep, shaky breath and breathes. “Hurley?”

“There you are, love,” Hurley gives her a sympathetic look and her heart just melts like its bleeding out through her fingers and all over the floor. And god. Oh god.

“Hurley, I,” Sloane begins again, glancing away and biting her tongue. She can’t do this. She can’t do this. Her vision blurs and she gasps before returning her gaze to Hurley. “Hurley, I need - I need help.” She has to stop and her worry mutates into frustration at her inability to spit it out, but Hurley is here and Hurley is patient.

“What do you need help with, love?” Hurley asks, brushing away the tears beginning to spill with her thumb. When the only response is a strangled cry from Sloane, she changes tactics. “Are you in danger?”

Sloane nods rapidly, willing her throat to let words through, but all she can manage is another strangled gurgle, nothing short of animalistic.

“Is there someone else after you?”

Sloane shakes her head no. Nobody but herself.

“Are other people in danger?”

Sloane nods furiously.

“Am I in danger?”

Sloane’s lips are pulled back in a grimace as she nods, ears flattened against her head.

“I know you don’t want me to, but do I need to involve the militia? We can help you, Sloane. We can protect you. I can protect you. We can keep you safe if you only let me help.”

Sloane is motionless aside from her breaths, staring at Hurley with that blank, hollow gaze. Hurley gives a soft sigh and pulls Sloane’s head to her chest, wrapping an arm around her shoulders with the other nestled in her hair.

“They’re not all bad, I promise. You’ve been clever with your mask. Your bad streak is tied to the Raven, but they don’t know you as Sloane. They’ll just see you as the elf lieutenant Hurley brought in who needed help. No one will hurt you, and you won’t have to go back to being a criminal anyways. The Raven belongs in the race tracks, not in the record books. We can help you if you give us the chance. I promise, Sloane,” Hurley says, a hand running through her hair soothingly as Sloane collected her voice. She had gone the past three weeks without human contact, terrified of hurting anyone close to her. She was lonely and aching for physical contact, aching for communication, but the belt kept her away. But with the hand in her hair and the thrum of Hurley’s heartbeat, she feels safe. She feels at home. And she wants to let Hurley deliver on her promise so badly, but then who would be there to protect Hurley?

“Hurley,” she begins again, and she can hear the hum of acknowledgement vibrate within her chest, “I’m scared.”

“What are you scared of?”

“Losing you,” Sloane replies automatically, words slipping out of her mouth before she can bite them back.

Hurley gives a soft chuckle and runs her hand through her hair again. “I’m not going anywhere, love,” she says and presses a kiss to the crown of Sloane’s head. “Why would you lose me?”

“Because I’m losing myself to this damned belt,” Sloane admits, staring up at Hurley with wide eyes. “This belt...Hurls, you don’t understand.”

“It’s just a belt, though, love,” Hurley tries to whisper, only for Sloane to bolt upright, pushing away from her grasp. Her ears are flattened against her head in some mixture of fear and anger and desperation because Hurley doesn’t _understand,_ and Hurley always understands, and she hasn’t put the words to make her understand yet but even so, _what if she doesn’t,_ and -

“Can’t you take it off?” Hurley interrupts, hands hovering as if she’s afraid of rejection upon placing them down. Sloane furiously shakes her head, a loud puff of air escaping her nostrils as she is reaching for words, praying for a proper train of thought in a sea of voices. It’s words and words and noises telling her to push away and run, scream, get angry, get loud. Coming here was a _mistake,_ Hurley can’t help her because Hurley can’t _understand,_ she’s getting by just _fine,_ she doesn’t _deserve the help._ But Hurley interprets the silence as a neutral response and takes matters into her own hands, reaching forward to unwrap the belt from Sloane’s waist

 _“Stop!”_ is all Sloane can bark, shoving Hurley back against the couch before she can touch the loops of vine and bark, launching herself off and taking a few steps back. She hunches over protectively, as if terrified that Hurley will take it from her. And she wants to yell at her, tell her _if you touch it, it will hurt you. It will hurt you, and there is nothing I can do about it,_ but she’s on edge and knows better than to waste her breath with adrenaline pumping through her veins. The look on her face is animalistic, and her own shock reflects in Hurley’s face like a mirror of confusion. The palm of her hands flatten outwards in an _easy, now_ gesture, elbows bending back so her hands are close to her shoulders.

“This isn’t you, Sloane,” Hurley says, and she sounds _hurt,_ and oh fuck, this was a mistake, this was a mistake. And she turns to run out the window again, but Hurley’s voice stops her in her tracks because she can’t run out on Hurley. She can’t. She can’t be here, but she can’t leave either with the concern and the disappointment and the hurt. “What _happened?”_

And maybe it is in poor taste that Sloane lets out a cynical laugh, shoulders shaking from their hunched position, but she laughs all the same. “I...Hurley, I found something _amazing,”_ she begins, lips curling into a cruel cross between a smirk and a snarl because something in her head is telling her that no matter what she says, it won’t make a single damn difference. But she’s nothing if not _polite._ “I found something you couldn’t even _believe_ existed. Something that _I_ couldn’t believe until I tested it myself.”

“Sloane...”

“I found something, Hurley. I found something that can fix _everything._ Everything wrong with this shitty little city. The place reeks of corruption, Hurley, and you and I both know it. And you and I? We’re fixing it! But Hurley, can you imagine? Can you imagine if we just. If we could just fix it all with a wave of the hand?” And her voice is dripping of desperation, of excitement, of something else she can’t quite put her finger on. Where these words are coming from - she can’t tell if they’re her own or if they belong to the fucking belt, but there’s sincerity and for just a moment she allows herself to _hope._ “We can’t right now! We’re doing what we can, but it’s not enough, it will _never be enough._ But this belt, Hurley, this belt? Hurley, this belt has made me a _god.”_ Her breaths are coming out in quick huffs between sentences. If she were to pause, if she were to take a moment to breathe, she would lose this train of thought. She’d be back to the drawing board and she hasn’t had a train of thought this unanimous since the last time she saw Hurley, since she flipped over the wagon in her rage, and she doesn’t _care_ if the words are her own or not, only that she needs to get them _out, out, out._

“Sloane-”

“With this belt,” Sloane says, spine straightening and gesturing at it with a hand, “I can control _nature itself._ The trees, Hurley. Vines rise from the floor to do my bidding if I do so much as ask. I can make flowers bloom no matter what season, and have them shrivel up and die for me if I want. I can purify the water from the slums with a wave of my hand, and I can leave it so polluted that whoever drinks it dies within the hour. I could stop the dust storms that tear up everything that isn’t tied down, or I could drive them to us at full force! Hurley, this belt? I can fix everything. I can put an end to every money-grabbing suit that weaseled their way into power for once and for all. I could redistribute the wealth they’ve been sitting fat on while the rest of us scuff around in the dirt and fight for _their_ entertainment in bloodsports! We can save everyone! We can protect everyone, make sure that nothing ever gets this fucking bad ever again! We could, we could be _heroes-”_

 _“Sloane!”_ Hurley yells, and Sloane’s spine stiffens immediately in shock while she takes a step back. The wild look in her eye vanishes, leaving her with the expression of a spooked horse. Hurley’s hands have fallen to the knees of her pants and clenched them in her fists as she listened to Sloane’s rant, eyebrows knitting in an expression of pure incredulousness. She’s leaning forward, trembling ever so slightly as silence fell over the apartment room, tension thick enough to be cut with a knife. This time, Sloane’s palms are raised in a harmless gesture, and the now scabbed over cut along her palm caught her eye. Flecks of dried blood remain in the lines of her palm, staining the surrounding area a dull, dark green. “Sloane, what _happened_ to you?”

Sloane freezes before all the energy within her just falls out, shoulders slumping in some sort of defeat. “I, I, I…”

“You’re not a killer, Sloane. Neither of us are.” Hurley’s voice is soft as she hops off the couch to stand before her partner. She takes Sloane’s injured hand between two of her own and bring it close to her face to inspect it. The halfling is looking more and more upset with each passing moment and it’s all Sloane can do to not fall apart when Hurley is staring at her with those bright brown eyes, silently demanding an explanation.

“Hurley, I didn’t mean for it to get this bad,” Sloane whispers.

“So let me help you,” Hurley insists once more, squeezing Sloane’s hand. “Take off the belt, Sloane. I don’t know what’s going on, but that’s the root of the problem, isn’t it?” But Sloane shakes her head once more, refusing to meet her eyes. She reeks of guilt and shame and _defeat._

“Hurley, I’m _scared.”_

“I’m here.” She drops the hand, opting instead to wrap her arms around Sloane’s waist and burying her face in her stomach. She feels Sloane let out a large breath of air before reciprocating, arms around her shoulders holding her tight. “No matter what happens, I’ll still be here.”

 

Hurley falls asleep that night curled around Sloane protectively, a comforting warm mass buried under blankets.

Come dawn, Hurley awakes alone; the dent in the mattress beside her is the only indication that the previous night happened.

**Author's Note:**

> @ griffin, what the fuck.
> 
> my tumblr is [whimsicmimic](http://whimsicmimic.tumblr.com/) so gimme a shout over there and cry with me over tree lesbians


End file.
